aw the
effect that I had made upon them and their desire to make reparation.
When a man is weak he can steel himself against danger, but not against
emotion.

"Comrades," I cried, "comrades--!" but I could say no more.

Something seemed to take me by the throat and choke me. And then in
an instant Olivier's arms were round me, Pelletan had seized me by the
right hand, Mortier by the left, some were patting me on the shoulder,
some were clapping me on the back, on every side smiling faces were
looking into mine; and so it was that I knew that I had won my footing
in the Hussars of Conflans.

III. How the Brigadier Slew the Fox [*]

[*] This story, already published in The Green Flag, is
included here so that all of the Brigadier Gerard stories
may appear together.

In all the great hosts of France there was only one officer toward
whom the English of Wellington's Army retained a deep, steady, and
unchangeable hatred.

There were plunderers among the French, and men of violence, gamblers,
duellists, and roues. All these could be forgiven, for others of their
kidney were to be found among the ranks of the English. But one officer
of Massena's force had committed a crime which was unspeakable, unheard
of, abominable; only to be alluded to with curses late in the evening,
when a second bottle had loosened the tongues of men. The news of it was
carried back to England, and country gentlemen who knew little of the
details of the war grew crimson with passion when they heard of it, and
yeomen of the shires raised freckled fists to Heaven and swore. And
yet who should be the doer of this dreadful deed but our friend the
Brigadier, Etienne Gerard, of the Hussars of Conflans, gay-riding,
plume-tossing, debonair, the darling of the ladies and of the six
brigades of light cavalry.

But the strange part of it is that this gallant gentleman did this
hateful thing, and made himself the most unpopular man in the Peninsula,
without ever knowing that he had done a crime for which there is hardly
a name amid all the resources of our language. He died of old age,
and never once in that imperturbable self-confidence which adorned or
disfigured his character knew that so many thousand Englishmen would
gladly have hanged him with their own hands. On the contrary, he
numbered this adventure among those other exploits which he has given to
the world, and many a time he chuckled and hugged himself as he narrated